


doomed (but just enough)

by downamongthedeadmen



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Competence Kink, Love at First Snipe, M/M, Wartime Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-14 01:47:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13583409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downamongthedeadmen/pseuds/downamongthedeadmen
Summary: At this point Marcus doesn't have the heart to tell Devrim that his name isn't Mark. Devrim can call him Mark if he wants. He can call him "honey" or "sweetheart" or "please stop fondling my rifle" if it makes him happy.





	doomed (but just enough)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tanyart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/gifts).



> an even more obscure rarepair that i had never considered until tanya made an off-hand joke about mark being short for [marcus ren](https://www.destinypedia.com/Marcus_Ren), that adorable hunter sparrow racer that only exists [in](https://db.destinytracker.com/d2/en/items/807458181-hastilude) [lore](https://db.destinytracker.com/d2/en/items/1245809814-st0mp-ee5) [tabs](https://db.destinytracker.com/d2/en/items/1558857468-fast-lane-shell). and since immortal/mortal ships are my absolute favorite, i was like fine. ok
> 
> title is from FOB's [church](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lvsmCRW3MPc). couldn't resist.

Of all the ways for him to die, _this_ is the one that pisses him off the most.

Listen, Cabal fucks, legendary Sparrow racer and Hunter Marcus Ren has survived more wild shit than your ugly asses could possibly imagine. He’s had a rival stick a smoke bomb on his Sparrow and rigged it to go off as he approached the finish line. Just weeks later, that same Sparrow crashed into the audience stands when another Guardian rammed into him _on accident_. Thankfully it was just a test run and no one was in the stands, which would have been far less funny and way more horrifying. It took two Titans and a very angry Ghost to dig him out of the rubble. And just three days ago, he lived through the terrible ordeal of losing his Light mid-fight and having to make some serious improvisations to get a whole Pike gang off his tail. That's nothing to shake a stick at.

So yeah, it’s embarrassing -- no, it’s just plain wrong that Marcus is gonna go like this: bleeding out from a shotgun slug to the belly while his poor Didi tries to heal him, remnants of her stolen Light fluttering through his body like a failing heartbeat. 

"It's okay," he says hoarsely when he hears her crying. The sound of your Ghost weeping over you stings more than any bullet. "It's gonna be okay, baby."

"Shut up," she replies, voice breaking. Didi springs from his body and floats to the ground, bumping against his forehead. Her bright red racing shell is cracked and covered in burn marks. This infuriates Marcus -- these rhinos can beat him up all they want, but going after his Ghost is unforgivable. "This is my fault. I should have had us stay closer to the Farm. I'm sorry, Marcus. I'm so sorry. I --"

She gasps when an incendiary grenade lands a bit too close and darts out of reach. Didi fuses back into Marcus's armor and urges, "C'mon, get up. They're slow but we gotta move."

Easier said than done. Marcus is out of ammo, his knife is broken, his face plate is cracked and he's pretty sure something in his leg is broken _on top_ of having a bullet wound. He tries to lift himself up by his hands and knees but one of his elbows gives out and he crumples into a useless heap of burnt leather and plasteel, grimacing. Didi doesn't need a neural link to sense her Guardian's agony; his labored breathing is loud enough that someone several feet away could hear. She tries her best to heal the worst of the pain but their fight from earlier left her damaged. If Marcus dies --

A squad of Cabal march over to where Marcus is struggling to sit up. They jeer at the fallen Hunter, one of them snatching his cloak and yanking him up by it into the air. He dangles like a broken marionette, swearing and kicking out with his good leg; his invention is pretty much useless if one of his legs won't cooperate. Another Cabal points at the open wound on his belly and laughs, recognizing the handiwork of another Legionnaire. He readies his shotgun to finish the job. 

"Get away from him!" 

A furious red sphere rockets out of Marcus's hood and slams into the face of the Cabal aiming at him, startling everyone. "No!" Marcus shouts, making a vain grab for Didi's shell. She ignores him and continues to ram her little body into the Cabal's leathery head, sparks bursting off his forehead along with bits of gore. In this dire situation, Marcus can't help but be in awe: his baby girl is kicking _ass_.

The other Cabal watch in something close to amusement as their comrade is assailed by a small drone, making absolutely no move to help him. The three of them -- Didi, the shotgun-wielding Cabal, and Marcus -- are embroiled in a confusing battle: Marcus trying to stop Didi, Didi trying to stop the Cabal, and the Cabal trying to strangle Marcus while swatting angrily at Didi. After a few poorly-aimed swings he smacks her out of the air and sends her flying toward a car overrun by years of vegetation. Marcus's heart almost stops entirely, until he sees Didi sail through the open passenger window like a shooting star. He prays to whatever is listening that she lands on the car seat and not the floor. 

Enraged, humiliated, and bleeding profusely from one eye, the Cabal forgoes the shotgun and decides to punch Marcus in the stomach instead. Marcus howls and spurts out blood, coating the inside of his face plate and completely obscuring his vision. The Cabal cackles and winds the cloak once, twice around Marcus's neck in a crude noose, forcing Marcus to grab hold of the beast's arm and brace his foot on the Cabal's side for leverage. He wheezes from pain and terror; he can't feel Didi's link any more, his wounded leg is completely numb, and now he's in danger of asphyxiation.

The Cabal shouts something to his fellows and one of them makes an apathetic gesture, pointing at his two good eyes and back at the one-eyed Cabal with a huff. The injured Cabal gesticulates with Marcus still clutched in one fist, jostling him as he argues back and forth with the others.

_This is it,_ Marcus thinks. He's exhausted, he's lost too much blood, and the Cabal is just toying with him now. As his vision starts to fade, a loud _CRACK_ booms through the area and Marcus is on the ground again, moaning in pain.

His captor is dying from a skull-shattering headshot, dirtying the grass with his rancid blood as he warbles a final threat to his assassin. From on his back, Marcus can make out messy blurs of crimson and black bumbling around to get a better look at their attacker. They correctly deduce that it's coming from the bell tower of what Marcus thought is an empty, dilapidated church. They're not quick enough, though -- another _CRACK_ , another dead Cabal, and another futile death rattle. 

Marcus's short-range radio, for some ungodly (or, honestly, godly) reason, sparks to life at this exact moment. " _Just lay low,_ " says a steady and unfamiliar voice. " _I'll get you out of there._ "

_Lay low?_ Marcus flips the guy off in the vague direction of the tower's open window, doing his best with a shaking hand. The sniper has the audacity to chuckle.

A Cabal turns to scowl at him, thinking he's somehow responsible, and is rewarded for his stupidity with a fatal bullet. With three down and only two left of them left, the remaining Legionnaires glance at each other and, in silent agreement, they nod. One of them makes a grab for Marcus and gets nicked in the thigh by an unlucky shot. He grunts but brushes it off, shouting a warning at the sniper as he snatches up poor Marcus and uses him as a meat shield, angling him toward the window. (At least he's not forcing him to stand on his broken leg. Small mercies.) The other Cabal flings his arm to the side to summon his blade and rests it gently across Marcus's throat which is just, like, overkill. 

The threat is obvious: Shoot one of us, and we'll kill him. The radio falls quiet; no static, no voice, nothing. 

Several tense minutes tick by with no movement from the church or the Cabal. Marcus is bleeding the last of what he has to give for the City. Didi isn't answering. The Traveler is gone.

It's over.

Like most Guardians, he's thought about what his final moments would be like. When he was younger, he wanted to go out in a blaze of glory -- first place trophy clutched in his arms as he lies in the smoldering ruin of his favorite Sparrow. The audience would be crying over him, shoving each other to get to his body first. Then he got smarter, started running ops for Field Commander Sloane, watched his friends die scared and screaming in the most awful ways. And that's when Marcus learned that war isn't glorious in the least bit, despite what Lord Shaxx wants people to believe. There's just the fight and what remains after. And you better hope you're part of those remains. 

There's very little hope in him now. Marcus doesn't want a plaque or medal for what he's done for humanity. He just wants to be thought about, maybe even missed. Proof that he existed and meant something to others. 

But there's no one out here in the EDZ that cares about him or even knows who he is, save for this sniper who just drew the shittiest straw of his life. He almost wants to shout to the tower that it's okay, just let him die and get away while he still can. 

Before Marcus gets the chance to open his mouth, he hears a small _plip_ hit his helmet, followed by more droplets of... rain? It's difficult to tell with the blood and the crack in his face plate. The Cabal shift impatiently and almost jump out of their skins when they hear Marcus's radio.

" _Suraya_ ," warns the voice, and a new person answers tersely, " _I got him._ "

This time when the thunder cracks, it's with two strikes -- two bullets that pierce two Cabal skulls simultaneously. For what is probably the hundredth time that day, Marcus crumbles to the ground with them, alive but just barely. He doesn't bother staying conscious for the boot steps headed his way.

  


* * *

  


Marcus comes to after some time, and finds himself staring at a ceiling that should've come down years ago. The first things he notices are how dry his throat is and how the couch he's lying on smells like a humid forest. After a bit more suspicious squinting, he also discovers that he's inside the church. If he peers over the edge of the makeshift landing he's on, he can see ancient pews and what was once a pulpit.

"Hello there," says the warm voice from the radio. Marcus turns his head slowly to the right and spots an older-looking man in camo coming down from the uppermost floor of the tower. He's got a rifle on his back and a tea cup in his scarred hands. "I'm glad you're awake. Suraya left only a few minutes ago. She wants me to send you to the Farm when you're up to it." When Marcus doesn't immediately reply, the man downs the cup and fetches a canteen from a table nearby. "How are you doing?" he asks, walking to the couch. "You slept a good sixteen hours, but I imagine you're still feeling a bit foggy." 

That's a lot of words for someone whose head is still trying to split itself open. Marcus wets his lips and tries to speak, but can only manage a cough. He accepts the canteen with gratefulness. He finally realizes his leg is bandaged and elevated on a sack, and a dressing's been applied to his stomach. "Thanks," he mumbles. "For... this."

"Of course. Suraya did the bandaging. I mostly dragged you up here." The soldier's got a friendly air about him, and eyes bluer than the ocean. He mistakes Marcus's staring for a question of identity, so he introduces himself with a little bow. "Devrim Kay, VIII."

Damn. Marcus thought putting Roman numerals after your name is something rich people did to sound distinguished. But this guy is seriously the eighth Devrim Kay in his family? What, is his clan really that bad at coming up with names? He tries, "M... Marc..." but the dusty couch makes him sneeze, and he almost douses himself with the water. Devrim wipes his dripping chin with a mostly clean rag and Marcus feels himself blush. "Rest easy now, Mark. You're safe with me." 

Ugh. He hates being called Mark. Boaz calls him that when he's trying to be a pedantic jerk. Still, "Mark" sounds rather nice in Devrim's drawl, and he's not going to be fussy to the man that saved his life. There's just one more thing he needs, though. "My... Ghost, did --" 

"Suraya found her -- she's alright, I believe she's scanning --" Devrim's interrupted by a shriek of joy as something small and eager launches up the stairs and dives into the cushion next to Marcus. Didi repeatedly bumps his cheeks with gentle Ghostly kisses before settling in the crook of his arm. 

"Hey, Didi," he croaks, eyes burning with tears that threaten to spill over. Didi whispers back, "Hey, Marcus," cuddling his side.

He's comforted by the whirring of her inner mechanisms and the familiar brush across his mind, like a cool hand resting on a hot forehead. Devrim pulls a ragged blanket -- flag? -- over them both, and Marcus sinks back to sleep. 

  


* * *

  


The first evening he spends in the church is fraught with nightmares, images of the City burning and people dying in his arms -- friends, strangers, tiny Ghosts that cry out one last time for their Guardians. He runs a high fever and breaks out in cold sweats with Devrim and Didi taking turns worrying over him. Without the Light, and with only scavenged supplies, there's not much to do for the pain aside from swallowing painkillers and biting on a towel. Devrim cleans and redresses his wounds and talks to Marcus the whole time, smoothing his hair back from his sticky forehead and holding his hand afterward.

He's only been conscious for twelve hours, yet Marcus is positive he'd die for Devrim Kay. Though in his current state that might not mean much.

Along with Didi, Devrim is his constant companion through the worst of the healing process. He tirelessly alternates between watching over Trostland from the bell tower and sitting next to Marcus on the couch, regaling him with tales of his past in the militia. From these entertaining chats, Marcus learns that Devrim loves camping, speaks six languages (and has passable knowledge of Fallen), has roots in Turkey, and most importantly, he's single. 

Marcus is quiet on his own background. He isn't sure why, in all honesty. It's not like he's got anything to hide. Literally, he's got nothing -- Devrim's seen him naked from cleaning and dressing his wounds. Didi is just as surprised as he is. _Don't you wanna brag about your trophies?_ she asks through their link one afternoon. From the couch, they can hear Devrim humming softly to himself as he adjusts his position. 

_I'm pretty sure they're all dust by now,_ Marcus replies gloomily. Everything he worked hard for is gone -- his apartment, his workshop, his custom-built Sparrows... Oh, yeah, and not a single one of his friends answer his calls. Either they're busy fighting the Legion or -- he doesn't want to think about it. Boaz and Ariadne, they go way back. It's all he can do to not fall into an endless loop of depression between bouts of physical agony.

_Well, what about all the ops we ran? You've barely mentioned the time we took down the House of Devils!_

_The guy stands there for eighteen hours a day killing every Cabal and Fallen that gets too close. Most of them are too scared to even look at the church now. And he's City militia! Not a Guardian! He's almost as cool as I am, Didi._

_Almost._ Didi bumps his forehead. _Just remember you're the coolest guy I know._

_Aw, baby. I love you. Best Ghost ever._

Thanks to the wonders of modern medicine Marcus is declared fit enough to return to the Farm after two weeks. Honestly, he only needed about 10 days, but he wanted to stick around just a bit longer. To make sure Devrim was alright. 

The "Suraya" that Devrim mentions so often is Hawthorne, the _de facto_ leader at the Farm. Marcus and Didi never formally introduced themselves when they'd first arrived after the City fell, but a person like Hawthorne needs no introduction. The bird and the rifle do that for her. "Thank you for saving us," says Didi, and Marcus steps forward to shake her hand and smile. "You and Devrim are amazing."

"Don't let Dev hear that," Hawthorne replies, a corner of her mouth turning up. "You guys alright? Need anything?"

Marcus wants to make himself useful, so he requests to be stationed at the church and assist Devrim. Hawthorne looks surprised but she lets him go after he proves that he can, in fact, use a gun. He sadly can't show off his boots, because if he tries to activate the hydraulic boosters his Lightless body will tear itself apart. And while that would have been really amazing to watch when he could be revived, he's gonna take a hard pass on it for now. "I'm also really good at driving," he says. "I can do supply runs and look for survivors."

Didi shows off a video recording of Marcus winning first place at a race he entered last year. He's grinning and throwing a peace sign at the camera with his free hand, the other clutching a trophy as Didi hovers proudly at his shoulder. Hawthorne rolls her eyes, in good fun. "Fantastic. I'll let you know if any Cabal wanna race you." 

"About that," says Marcus. "You know their Threshers? I know how to rig their engines to remote-detonate from a mile away. Just say the word."

Hawthorne raises her brows, impressed. Earning her respect is no small feat. "Now you're talking. Think I got a Sparrow for you to use, too." She radios in. "Dev? I'm sending a bomb expert your way. That Mark guy. He's got some ideas..." 

  


* * *

  


Marcus spends a full hour just driving as fast as he can through the EDZ's ruins. He doesn't trust this old girl's strafe thrusters to cut tight corners at top speed, but give him a couple of weeks and she'll be a monster, ramming Pikes off cliffs and making roadkill out of Legionnaires.

He's also happy to have Devrim chatting in his ear as the wind rushes through his hair. He doesn't talk much, preferring to keep his focus on what's around him, but his chest constricts in a wonderful way the longer he listens. Didi, bless her shell, doesn't comment on the staccato beating of his heart.

When he comes back to the church, Devrim greets him with a one-armed hug that ends far too soon. "You wanna take a break?" Marcus asks. "I'm decent with a sniper."

"Decent, eh? I thought Guardians mastered every weapon there is," Devrim jokes. 

Marcus laughs a little. "I prefer close combat. Hand cannons and SMGs. I don't have much patience waiting for the perfect shot." An idea hits him then. It's just dumb enough to work. "You mind helping me? I have some trouble holding the rifle, but I learn quick."

 _Marcus_ , says Didi, exasperated. _Really?_

_No, hear me out, I really want to learn. I hate not knowing how something works. Also, I want him to touch me._

Devrim obliges him by standing close to Marcus and giving him tips on his footing, arm placement, keeping focus, even his breathing. It's sadly not as physical as he was hoping, but he still has to tamp down on his jumping when fingers gently graze his shoulders to help realign the rifle. "Not bad, Mark," Devrim comments, smiling. "Your aim's a little off, but with practice I think you'd make an excellent scout."

At this point Marcus doesn't have the heart to tell Devrim that his name isn't Mark. Devrim can call him Mark if he wants. He can call him "honey" or "sweetheart" or "please stop fondling my rifle" if it makes him happy.

  


* * *

  


"Dev's nice to a fault," Hawthorne says, taking a bite out of her sandwich. She idly kicks her legs over the side of the fire escape, Marcus perched on the rail next to her. "I caught him serving tea to a Fallen one time."

"No you didn't," says Didi. 

"You're shitting me," says Marcus. He looks to Louis for support. The falcon just cocks its head at him.

Hawthorne snickers. She pulls a piece of the sandwich apart and tosses it to Marcus who catches it without looking. "There I was, bringing him an old radio to look at -- he likes taking apart pre-Golden Age machines -- and there's this Dreg curled up on the couch, looking just as confused as I was. Dev's by the window humming to himself and doing his thing, and I'm like, 'What the fuck is that?' And Dev's all, 'Please don't be rude to Lord Four-Arms. He's had a traumatic morning.' 

"I tell him _he's_ gonna have a traumatic morning if he doesn't explain what it's doing there, and he says he saved it from being tossed off the cliff by a bunch of Cabal. It looked pitiful to him, so he bandaged it up, and coaxed it inside to rest. I had to stand there while the old man's happily destroying this radio and there's a Fallen trying to figure out which one of its hands is supposed to hold the cup." 

"That's uh, that's... wow." Marcus wonders where that Dreg is now. "He's a great guy. I mean, I like to believe the best in people, but I was still surprised he cared for me for so long without complaining."

Hawthorne replies, quiet, "He's one of a kind. And I don't believe the best in people."

  


* * *

  


"Suraya told me you're a celebrity," says Devrim, glancing over his shoulder. Marcus is back in the church after a long day of stealing supplies and rescuing other Guardians lost in the woods. Trostland is quiet for now; there's been no sign of Fallen or Cabal for hours, but Devrim is vigilant. They'll come, he says.

Marcus takes a swig of water from his canteen. He's gotten kind of used to this old couch, even if it's a few squeaks from collapsing underneath him. "Yeah. Kinda. I don't really think about myself as one." Lie. "You win a few dozen races, and suddenly you're autographing people's chests." Don't get him wrong, Marcus likes doing that, but Devrim doesn't need to know. He's probably the kinda guy who wants someone low key. 

"I can only imagine," Devrim returns dryly. He adjusts the rifle, oblivious to the way Marcus is eyeing him. Or maybe he knows, and he's playing hard to get.

Marcus throws him a bone -- a huge one. He practically beans the old man with it. "Sparrows aren't the only things I ride, you know," he promises. 

Devrim chokes, but regains his composure when he notices something in his periphery. He returns to business though he manages to hold the conversation with a steady voice. It's a matter of pride for him, no doubt. "Is that so?" 

Damn it, Kay -- Marcus is shit at flirting. Contrary to popular belief, he hasn't had a long string of lovers or fans he's taken to bed. His first love will always be Didi, followed by racing, working on his Sparrows, inventing things that make Cryptarchs cry, and seafood. Hell, just _holding hands_ with people he likes makes him sweaty. What if they don't want to hear him talk about the time he disintegrated his legs while working on the Stompies? "Uh, yeah," he replies lamely, scratching his cheek. "Like... treadmills, I guess."

His answer makes Devrim outright guffaw and move away from the window to calm himself. His laughter is infectious. Once he's settled, he goes back to his perch and fires two quick shots, smirking when a Cabal howls from below. "You ride the treadmill, Mark?"

"I meant the stationary bike thing," Marcus says defensively, which is another lie. The equipment's always hogged by meathead Titans and Marcus doesn't know how people sit for so long on something that doesn't go anywhere. 

In his embarrassment, he mutters something about helping Hawthorne with a project and jogs downstairs. Devrim calls after him: "Have fun at the gym!"

  


* * *

  


After a month, he can't take it any more. Devrim's the hero in his dreams _and_ his waking hours. It's ridiculous. Marcus tells him this, accusingly.

Devrim -- well, he doesn't look too shocked, and his laugh is just shy of self-deprecating. "Mark -- Marcus," because Marcus finally broke down and admitted that wasn't his name, "don't you think I'm a tad too old for you?"

Oh, now _that_ is funny. Marcus scoffs. "You're, what -- forty-five? Fifty years old? I'm 266, buddy. You _look_ older, but I got you beat."

" _Forty-five!_ You're very kind, Mr. Ren," Devrim replies, winking. His expression is polite, even serene, but his eyes blaze with a fire that Marcus desperately wants to stoke. The adrenaline running through him is not unlike the high he gets from turning sharp corners at irresponsible speeds. 

Humble folks like Devrim, they never believe they're worth chasing after. That everyone just wants bad boys and models. Well, Marcus is determined to prove him wrong. "I know you don't believe me, but I think silver foxes like you are a _steal_."

A surprised hand goes straight to Devrim's temples as though he wants to verify he's got any hair to begin with. He's got this adorable Dreg-in-the-headlights look. "Silver --?" He snorts. "You jest."

"I'm serious as hell! The majority of us look like baby-faced young adults, 'cause that's who the Traveler thought would make the best warriors, I guess? Which is a shame, because I know for a fact a lot of older folks signed up for past wars. And I don't mean old as in elderly, I mean people who were in their thirties and forties. Where are _those_ Guardians, huh? The ones with experience and shit?" Marcus throws his hands up in the air. It's true that age doesn't always equate to wisdom, but fuck if it ain't usually the way things go.

Devrim rubs his chin thoughtfully. "You know, you have a point. I do enjoy blaming the younger generation on everything that's wrong with our world now."

Marcus narrows his eyes at Devrim, who can't help but crack a smile. He's kidding, thankfully. "Human Guardians don't age the same as civilians, Awoken age even slower, and Exo don't age at all," Marcus points out. It's a sobering thought if you're the type to dwell on the pitfalls of immortality. "Thing is, I get bored looking at other Guardians. You know Lord Saladin?"

"I've heard of him, yes. A good man."

"He's _hot_. Grizzled. Has a voice that'll make you drop down to give him 200 and like it. Olisar Kel, this year's 'Finest Guardian' with the perfect skin and great smile? Boring. Lord Tall, Dark and Handsome with the grey hair and frown lines? Holy shit, sign me the fuck _up_."

Devrim coughs. "This is why Guardians flock to him for the Iron Banner?"

Poor, innocent Devrim. He still thinks most Guardians are honorable. No, they're all just horny bastards who want nice guns. Marcus laughs into his fist. "I'm not saying we do it _just_ for him, but he's a large part, yeah. As for me, well, I enjoy a good challenge." 

On that coy note, he decides to test his luck and scoot closer to Devrim on the couch. The old cushions creak when Marcus hooks a finger in the collar of Devrim's undershirt and pulls him forward for an overdue kiss.

Their lips are chapped from the cold, dry air, but it's the nicest kiss he's had in decades. Marcus draws back for a second to lick his mouth before returning to Devrim's. To his immense satisfaction, Devrim frames his face with both hands and kisses back him roughly, beard tickling Marcus's skin. Finally.

He's focused for so long on getting to this point that he's not quite sure what's the next step, aside from stripping and rolling around on the couch like teenagers, maybe. The church isn't the ideal place, given the questionable strength of the furniture and the fact that other Guardians drop by unannounced. It's also cold, and huddling under a House of Dusk flag for warmth _sounds_ sweet, but in practicality it'd suck. 

Fortunately for Marcus, Devrim makes the decision for them: they're going to stop making out entirely. He firmly takes hold of Marcus's shoulders when he tries to sneak a hand up his shirt and gently pushes him off. Which, alright, he would've preferred a bit more passion, maybe getting dramatically shoved off the couch while Devrim leaps to his feet and declares they can't be together because he's a mortal and Marcus isn't (normally). 

Instead, Devrim clears his throat and says, a little soft, "We're in a war zone." 

"I noticed," Marcus replies, banishing the fantasy from his mind. "And I love it." 

"Of course you do." Devrim shakes his head, fond. "But, my dear Marcus, why don't we focus on surviving the war and then come back to this?"

Marcus hangs his head in disappointment, prompting Devrim to clarify, "It isn't a no. It's a 'not right now'. Surely you understand."

He understands one thing, loud and clear: Cayde's books are full of shit. This isn't sexy at all. It's depressing and realistic. "Yeah," he agrees. "Okay. Rain check."

Later that night when he's acting out the part of human burrito huddling into the couch, miserable from the chill, he feels soft bristles and lips against the nape of his neck. The reddening of his ears inspires a quiet chuckle and a ruffling of his hair. "Good night, old man," teases Devrim.

  


* * *

  


"I hope that Guardian kills Ghaul soon because I'm tired of Devrim getting all sad when I send other people his way. 'Aw, Suraya, where's my favorite Hunter?' Gee, I don't know, off hunting? Do I look like a babysitter?"

"Hey," says Didi reproachfully. "What does that make me, then?"

"My better half, obviously." 

  


* * *

  


"When everything's over and we've taken the City back, you wanna come over for a date? Assuming I can find a house?" Marcus wiggles his eyebrows. "I know this recipe for baked clams that'll knock your socks off. C'mon."

"I feel as though Suraya needs to be here to chaperone us," Devrim jokes as he cleans his rifle. "You whisking me away for a romantic dinner..."

Marcus shrugs. "I gotta have something to look forward to besides seeing Ghaul kick it." 

"Tell you what. I'll bring the wine, you bring the clams. I'm expecting a five-star meal, you know."

"Anything for Devrim Kay, VIII." He swiftly steals a kiss before bounding downstairs and back into the wild. Didi's got her eye on a cache, and Marcus needs Glimmer for clams. 

  


* * *

  


And then, one night, it's over.

Marcus is reloading in a destroyed grocery store, about to finish off a Centurion, when every cell in his body ignites. There's an explosion of Light across the sky and screams heard for miles. Screams of disbelief, joy, and bloodlust as one by one, Guardians rise from the ashes of the City and tear the Red Legion apart. Some with their bare hands. 

Marcus falls to his knees the instant the Centurion's down. _It's gonna be okay now_ , he tells Didi. _We're okay. We're back!_ He feels rather than hears Didi sobbing in his brain, but she's relieved, so relieved. They waste no time cutting down Legionnaires in their way, racing toward fellow Guardians to assist. 

The Legion hadn't banked on an onslaught of Lighted Guardians, so after only twelve hours, the City is more or less cleared of Cabal. All that's left are ruined buildings and bodies. Marcus helps locate survivors, and cheerfully cuts the throat of any Cabal that struggles to get to its feet. 

He stays in the City for a few weeks to help with reconstruction efforts, but he keeps in touch with Devrim the whole time. From the moment they met, they hadn't been apart from each other -- physically or via radio -- for more than a couple of days. He's in no rush to change that now. 

Marcus volunteers to go to the EDZ for supply runs and to weed out lingering Cabal. He transmats crates full of food and medicine to the Farm, shoots a couple of uglies, and then takes off for Trostland with no intention of leaving any time soon.

"Devrim!" he shouts, hopping onto the remains of an old statue. "Look! I got my Light back!" To demonstrate, Marcus summons a staff of pure Arc energy and twirls it above his head, laughing.

A bullet whizzes past him and _almost_ grazes his arm as it annihilates a cocky Legionnaire to the left. He's dead before he hits the ground. _Damn. Nice shot._ Marcus continues to wave excitedly at the bell tower, crackling with lightning and joy. He yells, "I'm coming up!" and makes a beeline for the church. 

The moment he takes the first two stairs to the bell tower, he stops. What's he doing? Going up the stairs like a _normie_? Marcus immediately turns tail and rushes back outside. He starts to scale the tower, making use of loose bricks and minuscule indentions. The Stompies help him climb faster, and as soon as he's ten feet below the windowsill Marcus propels himself upward and grabs onto the ledge. "Hi," he says, poking his head up to beam at Devrim.

"Hello, love," Devrim says calmly, aiming down sights with one eye closed. "Would you please get inside before you're shot?"

It's hardly the romantic greeting he deserves, but Marcus is too happy to care. He obediently swings inside the tower and sits down on the left couch, waiting. "You almost shot me," he says, grinning.

"'Almost'?" Devrim huffs. "If I were aiming for you, it would have hit."

"Yeah, but I've seen you take two Fallen down with one bullet without even trying." Marcus shakes his head in disapproval. "You going soft or something, Dev?" 

"Ah, you," says Devrim, chuckling. He rubs his chin. "In that case, I suppose you could say I... missed my Mark?"

_My Mark_. Marcus hopes the stupid grin on his face doesn't look _too_ dopey. He stands up. "He missed you, too."

Devrim's head-spinning kiss has Marcus swearing up and down he can hear the old church bell ringing.


End file.
